ALTADENA, Calif. — The alerts began on Saturday, January 4, as a neighbor, who volunteers at the local sheriff’s station, messaged me to brace for an impending “big windstorm.” After that, events unfolded rapidly.
On Sunday, dressed in a tuxedo and bowtie, I was prepped to cover the Golden Globes. By Tuesday morning, however, I was heading towards the devastating Pacific Palisades wildfire to gather footage for coverage. I asked my wife, Meg, to prepare the cat carriers and to record a video of our home for insurance reasons, just in case.
On my way back home, I noticed ominous orange smoke. A colleague informed me of another fire brewing in Altadena. I parked at a gas station near the Bunny Museum, with our favorite pizza spot, Side Pie, located just across the intersection and the long-standing café, Fox’s, down the road.
Within less than an hour of the fire’s ignition, flames surged along the mountainside above Eaton Canyon, prompting me to wear a KN95 mask and ski goggles for protection. The raging winds from the Santa Ana conditions felt unprecedented. I returned home and informed Meg that it was time to pack up and evacuate.
Our daughter, Reese, was off on a school trip at the time. We spent about an hour packing, which felt simultaneously brief and interminable. I grabbed an Ozomatli sweatshirt I had received for Christmas, jeans, vitamins, and a portable speaker. Meg organized her belongings alongside essentials for Reese, including her backpack and stuffed animals. I hesitated before the wine bottles, realized it wasn’t necessary, and stored them back. We also gathered passports and birth certificates, along with a litter box and wet food for our cats before loading both cars with our belongings.
I checked with our neighbors to see if they needed help, and learned that the neighbor next door did. I assisted Donna in getting her husband, Phil, who uses a wheelchair, into their Subaru. I captured a final photograph of our house, bathed in a reddish-orange glow against the horizon. With that, we drove off into the night, facing an uncertain future marked by fires and loss that would forever alter our lives.
Reflecting on our time in Altadena, the area first caught our attention when Reese participated in the Summerkids camp, with each morning drive past towering pines and maple trees offering a serene escape from the urban rush. When Reese was five, we stumbled upon a three-bedroom, two-bath home featuring a backyard view of the San Gabriel Mountains and a family-friendly tree for a swing.
Constructed in 1958, the house had previously belonged to our new next-door neighbor for years. Meg and I adored the clerestory windows, hardwood floors, and wooden beams that adorned the ceiling, which we restored to their natural beauty by stripping away the paint.
The diversity of our surroundings was something we cherished. As we walked along our street—a section devoid of sidewalks—we exchanged nods and greetings with neighbors, joined in community with a significant Black population. The area offered tranquility, nature, and affordability, appealing to artists and musicians within Los Angeles’s creative scene.
When the weather was favorable, I would hike to Echo Mountain via a trail leading uphill. The remnants of a resort that had succumbed to fire in the early 1900s still lay there, a piece of history. Once, while adventuring with Reese, we unearthed fragments of a pot during our exploration, excited to piece it together later.
Two years ago, new neighbors arrived next door with two daughters who became like family. The kids enjoyed climbing our garage to watch fireworks or playing games in the yard. Our two orange tabby cats, Luke and Archie, became our companions well before the pandemic, helping us navigate the lockdown period, especially with the nearby wildfires keeping us confined. Meg envisioned a special outdoor area for them, a “catio.”
After the passing of Meg’s father, we utilized her inheritance to give our home a fresh look. Meg diligently modernized every aspect, retaining the mid-century charm while curating a collection of artwork, photographs, and souvenirs from our travels. One Christmas, she transformed the garage into a personal retreat, complete with a TV and a desk from her father. We filled sheds with cherished memories—photo albums, decorations, and old scrapbooks—all now reduced to ashes.
My remote working situation allowed me to explore a three-mile loop that showcased our lively community: cars in various states parked in mismatched yards, neighbors on horseback trotting down the street, and stunning modern homes juxtaposed against nature. Signs of activism and political opinions punctuated our neighborhood, with rainbow and Black Lives Matter flags urging a sense of belonging.
Reflecting on what was left of our cherished community after the evacuation, I returned to Altadena the morning after our escape.
Glancing from the freeway, the scene resembled an apocalyptic vision, a haze of darkness enveloping what once was home. I witnessed devastation firsthand, where businesses, including a nearby McDonald’s, suffered flames. I attempted to record the destruction unfolding near my home but retreated as the smoke thickened and flames encircled the area.
I set out for the nearby evacuation center at the Pasadena Convention Center, where I observed the evolving scene: individuals arriving alone and gradually seeking assistance from dedicated volunteers. After speaking to several evacuees, I made another attempt to check on our house.
Dodging burning trees and debris, I braved the way back to our street, only to find that a burning electrical pole sealed off the road. I didn’t even step out of my vehicle; I merely absorbed the sight before me: most of our block had been reduced to ashes. The swing and ping-pong table remained, and the chimney was still there, but everything else—our memories and lives—had been obliterated, as if they had never existed. I knew better, though; I had lived those moments.
Descending the hill, I couldn’t hold back my tears.
